


Bed Bath and Beyond Coupons Don't Expire

by covertius



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Gen, M/M, bed bath and beyond coupons don't expire - they're like family that way, damen and laurent meet in a bed bath and beyond buying stuff to cook thanksgiving dinner, rated teen for some language and oblique references to past child abuse, really very fluffy, thanskgiving, warning this is the most american thing i have ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21568291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/covertius/pseuds/covertius
Summary: After an unfortunate remark, Damen and Kastor have been tasked by their parents with making Thanksgiving dinner on their own.Now that Nicaise has moved in with them and they have a reason to do things right, Auguste and Laurent are planning to prepare a full Thanksgiving feast for the first time.When the two parties bump into each in the kitchenware aisle, Laurent and Damen's quick connection could mean a future of joint holidays to come.  But even with romance on the bloom, family comes first.
Relationships: Auguste & Laurent & Nicaise, Auguste & Laurent (Captive Prince), Damen & Kastor (Captive Prince), Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 248





	1. Chapter 1

“Hey look. Grandma used to have one of those.” Damen crouched down examining the stack of foot high boxes that had pictures of ceramic Christmas trees, the kind with little glass lights that plopped into holes in the pottery.

“Your grandma,” Kastor muttered.

“She loved you,” Damen said, frowning. The grandma in question had been Damen’s mother’s mom, but both his grandparents on that side had embraced Kastor, saying that they were all one family. It galled him that Kastor still tried to separate them out sometimes.

“It’s funny,” he said, choosing not to engage, “You used to never see these old things in stores, but they’re starting to be everywhere in the past couple of years.”

“Because everyone’s grandmother used to have one.” Kastor rolled his eyes. “Christmas is about nostalgia. Now will you stop messing around so we can get this over with?”

Damen sighed. “Yeah. I don’t really want to be here either.”

They’d chosen to come out early before the crowds would be too bad, but despite the early November date, Christmas music was already playing nonstop over the loudspeakers and there was a large stock of holiday decorations arranged enticingly right past the entryway where Damen had gotten distracted. They headed over to the kitchen section.

“Why the fuck do they need that much contact paper?” Kastor asked, eyes running over the entire wall of it, rows upon rows that stretched from floor to ceiling. Damen could only shake his head in equal bafflement, backing up slightly to get a better view of the area and trying to scope out what they needed when he bumped right into - 

* * *

“We have everything we need?” Auguste asked, as he pulled into a parking spot. “Shopping list? Coupons?”

“I have the list,” Laurent said.

There was a beat of silence in the car.

“Nicaise? Coupons?”

“What do you think I did with them, threw them out the window on the turnpike?” Nicaise unclipped his seatbelt sullenly, as only a fourteen year old can. “I still don’t understand why I had to come.”

“Family shopping trip!” Auguste said cheerfully. “It’s a bonding experience.”

“You’re just afraid that I’ll steal all your fancy stuff while you’re gone.” Nicaise smirked. “Don’t worry. When I do clean you out, it’ll be while you’re sleeping and you won’t even hear me at all. You’ll just wake up one morning to an empty house that you’ll never have seen coming. It’ll be better that way.”

Auguste opened his mouth to argue with him, but Laurent cut him off.

“Nicaise. If you are not here to stop him, Auguste is going to buy a _plaid_ tablecloth.”

The facade of superiority dropped as his lips curled in real disgust. “Seriously?”

Auguste, who had never before that moment expressed any strong preference for plaid, immediately jumped in with, “But plaid‘s so home-y.”

Nicaise turned to Laurent. “Why don’t you stop him then?”

“You know I let him have his way on everything. He still listens when you whine.”

“Ugh. Fine.” Nicaise got out of the car with the air of someone doing them a great favor in saving them from themselves, and Laurent and Auguste exchanged briefly triumphant glances before getting out of the front seats.

“You know all these coupons are expired right?” Nicaise asked, as they walked into the store.

“They don’t expire.”

“There’s expiration dates right on the -”

“Yes, it _says_ that they expire, but they really don’t. You can use them whenever, it doesn’t matter.”

“Is that why you’ve hoarded like 15 of them in the junk drawer?”

Laurent pushed a shopping cart into Auguste’s hands and led them into the store, letting them bicker as he perused the shelves, tossing serving spoons and pie plates into the cart. He reached up to grab a roasting pan on a high shelf, and when he couldn’t reach it was just leaning back to ask Auguste to make himself useful when he bumped into -

-the most beautiful man in the world. Or so it seemed to Laurent as he gazed up an almost surreally statuesque frame past mountains of olive-skin that ended in a good-natured, handsome face capped with tumbles of black curls. His eyes were dark brown, and very warm.

“I’m sorry,” the Adonis said, “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“You should be,” said Laurent, although he hadn’t been looking either. He was looking now though. Quite shamelessly.

The Greek god frowned a bit at his arch tone. Then the brown eyes looked past him towards the shelf he had been straining towards.

“Oh, were you reaching for that? Here let me-”

The stranger was taller than him. Tall enough that it shouldn’t have been much of a reach. But he made a point when he was getting the roasting pan of stretching up much higher than he needed to, high enough to make his shirt ride up and give Laurent a flash of dimpled back.

“Here we go,” he said, coming back down with a cocky grin. Laurent had impeccably accurate gaydar based entirely around whether the other man was checking him out. (Or rather - whether he seemed to know that he was checking Laurent out. Everyone did that whether they were conscious of it or not.) And as the handsome stranger handed him the roasting pan, Laurent got the definite sense that he was attracted to men and, more specifically, attracted to Laurent. He allowed himself a bit of warmth at the ego boost.

Of course, Auguste noticed and chose that moment to come over and introduce himself.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out his hand to shake and somehow not making that a weird and awkward thing to do. “I’m Auguste. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” The hot guy shook his hand amicably. “Damianos, but most people call me Damen.” He glanced into Laurent’s cart. “You guys getting ready for Thanksgiving?”

“Yeah. It’s our first one with Nicaise, so we gotta do it right.” He threw his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Before that, we used to do the thing where you order from a restaurant and pick it up the day of.”

“Oh.” Damen, still looking friendly, had taken a respectful step back. “So you guys are …”

“Brothers.”

“Right!” He was back to full intensity. “I should have known from the coloring.” Auguste and Laurent were built differently, but they both had blond hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. “Are you shopping for your parents?”

“Not exactly. It’s complicated.”

“I’m here with my brother too, wherever he disappeared to.”

Another tall guy, also muscled and bronzed, came up behind him. “I found the right pot while you were being useless.”

“Did you measure it?”

“Whatever, it’s fine, let’s just go.”

They looked alike, and yet they didn’t. The new man had a grimmer face, and Laurent didn’t think it was just his current mood. He had thought, when Damen had first turned around, that he was about the same age as Auguste. Then he’d smiled and the dimple had come out and he looked much younger. This new brother, Laurent thought, probably was close to Auguste in age, though not, it seemed in temperment.

“Are you guys on your own too?” Auguste asked. Laurent was always amazed at how he made questions like that sound natural instead of nosy.

“No, but we are in charge of Thanksgiving dinner this year.”

“And it’s your fucking fault,” the brother added.

“It was not my fault. And don’t curse in front of the kid.”

“‘The kid’ knows better and more creative obscenities than you muscle-brained cunts could ever come up with,” said Nicaise, and the older brother’s laughter cut over Auguste’s reprimanding glare.

“How was being responsible for Thanksgiving dinner your fault?” Laurent asked.

“It wasn’t,” said Damen, “But what happened was …”

_One week earlier_

_“Mom, I was thinking,” Damen said. It took a moment for his stepmother to look up - he had called her by her name when he was younger, and "Mom" was still a new word between them. Behind him, he heard Kastor put a plate down with more force than necessary. “About Thanksgiving -”_

_“Oh, don’t even mention that yet,” she said, “Just take the leftover Halloween candy so your father and I don’t eat it and leave that stress for another day.”_

_“No, that’s what I was thinking,” Damen continued, “You shouldn’t have to deal with it all on your own.” It had been a rough year - Theomedes’s health wasn’t great, although thank God he was rallying and looked like he’d be more or less OK now. Hypermenestra had borne the brunt of it though, going with him to doctor’s appointments and looking after him at home when he needed it. Lord knew she could use a break. “Kastor and I are grown now, we can take on some more responsibilities, maybe make a few of the sides to bring over with us, split up the pies … ”_

_“When Egeria was alive, we used to have most of the feast catered so she was only responsible for the turkey,” his Dad put in, “We could do that again.”_

_“When Egeria was alive, you two hosted extended family and had over two dozen people,” Hypermenestra, “There’s no need to bring in caterers for the four of us.”_

_“We could afford it,” Dad said, but Damen interrupted before they could start bickering again._

_“That’s why I suggested that Kas and I could-”_

_“I didn’t agree to this!” Kastor shouted from the kitchen._

_“That’s very sweet of you Damen, said Hypermenestra, “But I’ve handled this for years, and I’ve still got it now. And I think you’re underestimating how tricky pie baking can be your first time out.”_

_“See, she doesn’t even want help.” Kastor had come in to the room now, frowning. “So there’s no point trying to make me look bad for not offering first.”_

_“That wasn’t what I was-”_

_“You think I don’t see what you’re doing? Perfect Damen, always so sweet, always helpful. Well, you’re not wanted this time.” Then he grumbled, almost under his breath. “How hard can it be to cook a turkey anyway.”_

_A dreadful silence fell on the household at those last words, and then Theomedes and Hypermenestra were turning to look at them, as one, with identical, menacing smiles._

“...And now we’re in charge of the whole meal. Salad to dessert, the works.”

Laurent turned to the older brother whose name, he now knew, was Kastor. “That is entirely your fault,” he said, grinning, “There’s no shared blame for that at all.”

“Whatever,” Kastor grumbled, “I got the pot, can we just go?”

“Wait a minute,” said Auguste, “If you’re cooking for your parents, don’t they already have the stuff you’re going to need in their kitchen?”

“Yeah, but my stepmom’s old-fashioned, she just rubs and roasts. We’re going to try brining it this year.”

“So you need a pot large enough to submerge the whole thing in saltwater. We’re trying a dry salt rub ourselves.” Auguste and Damen nodded at each other knowingly as if they hadn’t read the same articles on how not to dry out a turkey expressly because they didn’t know what they were doing. “But we’ve never done the whole big roast dinner thing so our kitchen needs some accessorizing.”

“Sounds like a big job.”

“Actually,” Auguste was looking back and forth between the two of them with a match-makerish gleam, “I think Laurent’s got it covered. Nicaise, let’s go look at table linens.”

They left the cart with him. Damen stepped closer. Unfairly, he even smelled good, a light masculine musk under some kind of aromatic soap. “We could help you find some of that stuff if you want. It would save you some time.”

“Oh my God,” Kastor groaned behind him.

“It’ll just take a few minutes.”

Laurent smirked up at Kastor. “Why don’t you go look at table linens?”

“Fine.” Kastor stalked off and he and Damen were alone.

They checked the list and set off through the aisle together, looking for serving dishes and turkey lifting forks.

“So Nicaise,” Damen started, “He’s your younger brother?”

“No.”

“I thought not, since Auguste said it was his first one with you. He’s Auguste’s kid?”

“He’s our kid. My brother and I are co-raising him.” Laurent gave him a challenging smile. One thing Auguste would never understand about him was that eviscerating a beautiful man was as much fun as flirting with him, and this was one of Laurent’s favorite games, throwing out something provocative and waiting for them to take it the wrong way. The moment he started to suggest that there was anything off or wrong about it, Laurent would destroy him and it would be _delicious._

“Oh,” Damen said. He blinked. “Family foster?”

Laurent stopped short. No one had ever guessed it on the first try, not after Laurent had phrased it like that.

“Yes,” he admitted, “Technically he’s our cousin, but our uncle was - unable to care for him.” Unfit to care for him, should never have been able to foster let alone adopt, not after what Auguste had put on file with CPS when he’d pulled Laurent from the house, even if it hadn’t gone to trial. Auguste insisted that it wasn’t his fault, but if Laurent had been stronger back then, if he’d been willing to testify ... “We filed for custody when we found out about his living situation. It’s a little unorthodox, but we thought he’d do better with two adults in the house, and it wasn’t that big a deal to transfer to a school closer to home.”

“That’s really great, that you’re keeping him out of the system. And it is a big deal, changing schools. It’s really amazing.” Damen held up a pop-up timer with a questioning look and dropped it in the cart at Laurent’s nod. He was holding himself slightly more stiffly. “So, you’re in college?”

“One more year.”

Damen visibly relaxed. “Then it’s even more amazing. I got out two years ago, and I remember how stressful it was at the end. Uprooting yourself so late can’t be easy.”

Embarrassingly, Laurent felt his cheeks heat. He wasn’t used to having an attractive man peer at him so intensely and give him sincere compliments. People flattered Laurent all the time, mostly trying to get him in bed, but this was different. This felt like he meant it.

“I’m guessing you were a super-senior,” Laurent said.

“Nope. Five year masters program, completed on time.” He looked over Laurent critically. “You’re a double-major, though, aren’t you? Or at least have a major and a minor.”

“Lucky guess.”

“No, it’s the way you made this list,” Damen said, pointing to the shopping list they’d been leaning over together, “You’re someone driven, intent. I can’t see you taking an elective for an easy pass or a chance to goof off senior year. Everything to a purpose.”

Laurent tilted his head and examined him. “I’m not used to people reading me as well as I read them.”

“Oh, you’ll surpass me pretty soon, I’m sure,” Damen said, “I’m an open book.”

“Your turn then. Kastor is the son of your father and stepmother, but he’s older than you? Spill that family secret.”

“It’s not a secret really. Dad and Hypermenestra dated in high school, had Kastor, broke up, Dad met Mom, they got married, had me.” He pulled something from Laurent’s list off the shelf. “Then my mom died, and Dad and Hypermenestra were still in touch because of Kastor, and they fell back in love. I guess when I think back on it it was pretty soon after, but it felt like forever as a kid. I was so psyched to have Kastor move in, to have something to be happy about. And Hypermenestra was pretty nice. I already knew her, she used to babysit me sometimes so I could spend time with Kas. She never tried to take my mom’s place.”

There was something in his tone, and Laurent’s gaze sharpened. “But part of you wishes she did. Mothered you a bit more even if that meant stepping on a dead woman’s toes.”

“No, I -” Damen stopped, swallowed. “Yes, I think I do. I didn’t know that until you said.” He turned to face Laurent. “Christ, how do you do that?”

Now was the moment when most people turned away from him, got scared or angry at being read, being made vulnerable. Damen didn’t though; he stood there with his face open, looking Laurent directly in the eye, raw but not frightened, not closing off or running away, unashamed.

“How did Kastor feel about moving into the house his dad used to share with his first wife who wasn’t his mom?”

“I don’t really know. I was too young then to get a clear read on anyone’s emotions that weren’t my own. But I imagine he wasn’t as thrilled to have a clingy six-year-old hanging around him all the time as I was to get to live with my cool older brother in high school. I remember fighting a lot. But I remember a lot of good times too. It’s how brothers are.”

Laurent could count the number of fights he’d had with Auguste on one hand, all of them from the first year after he’d moved in with Auguste instead of his uncle and each one had felt like it was killing him. But he knew that they were outliers.

“The offer you made, about taking part of Thanksgiving off your stepmother’s hands,” Laurent said, going back to an earlier question, “That’s how I knew that you wanted more from her. It sounded like someone trying to bond.”

“I guess I am. It’s stopped feeling like an insult to my real mom’s memory to call her ‘Mom’ too, now, so I’ve been trying that out recently, seeing how that goes.”

“I bet Kastor hates that.”

“No,” Damen said firmly. Then again he stopped, and Laurent could see him going back through his mind, tracking back to the fights they’d had and noticing how often that had proceeded whatever little thing seemed to set Kastor off. He frowned. “What are you saying, that Kastor’s jealous of me trying to get closer to his mom?”

“I think he’s been jealous of you for a long time.”

“How could you possibly know that? You don’t even know him.

“No. But I’m getting to know you, aren’t I?”

Damen stared at him and Laurent could not look away, their eyes burning into each other as if something momentous were about to happen.

“Excuse me,” said a voice from the aisle, and they jumped out of the way to let a middle-aged woman pass with her cart. The moment had passed.

They had barely finished the list when Auguste and Nicaise came back for them, arms full of tablecloths and cloth napkins.

“We found a candle that smells like fall,” Auguste said, shifting his arm so Laurent could see it tucked in the crook of his elbow, “And Nicaise picked out a centerpiece.”

“He wanted something countrified, with _leaves_ ,” Nicaise said with scorn. 

Laurent looked down. In the boy’s hands was a glass turkey in an iridescent pink color that looked like Depression glass but wasn’t.

“It’s very nice.” No one had ever been able to tell if Laurent was lying when he didn’t want them to.

“We should start a group chat,” Auguste suggested, as he carefully bundled his purchases into Laurent’s cart. “You know, brothers cooking turkey, doing Thanksgiving.”

“We should,” Damen said, eyes lighting up with real enthusiasm as he and Auguste exchanged numbers.

“While we’re here, you should see if you want something for your room,” Laurent suggested to Nicaise while the other two had their bro-fest.

“I can pick out stuff for my room?”

“We can say no if it’s something too expensive or too large for the space,” Laurent said, recognizing the look of someone not opposed to taking advantage, “But within reason, of course you can pick out what you want.”

“I saw some curtains that I liked while we were walking around.”

“Then let’s go check them out. Auguste, we’re heading this way.”

“I’d prefer it if you got my permission first the next time you try to slyly give my number to some guy,” Laurent said later, while Nicaise was debating over which comforter would match his new sheets.

“You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to,” Auguste said, “But it seemed like you want to.” He leaned closer so Nicaise wouldn’t hear. “It wouldn’t kill you to live a little Laurent.”

* * *

The beautiful men went off to complete their shopping and Damen had to wait around for more than ten minutes before Kastor reappeared from whatever part of the store he’d wandered off to.

“Finally,” he grumbled, but in a subdued way. He often did that - got angry and went off and stewed and came back calmer and a little shamefaced, but too embarrassed to admit it and so pretending to still be grumpy.

“Find anything good?”

“Some of those coffee things,” Kastor said, tossing one of the boxes he had under each arm into the cart, “And that dumb tree thing that you liked. Like the one Grandma had.”

Damen smiled. “Yeah. Thanks, Kas.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was meant to go up before Thanksgiving, or at least, on it. Hope you will excuse the lateness! The last few scenes are unedited to get this up before Thanksgiving weekend technically ended, so apologies for any mistakes or typos!
> 
> *Note about sweet potatoes vs yams:* sweet potatoes come in several varieties. The kind generally used in Thanksgiving fare is a sweeter, orange fleshed, and shaped kind of like a yam, so it was called "yam" in American supermarkets for many years to differentiate it from a different kind of sweet potato that is rounder, more yellow-fleshed, and not as sweet. Now that sweet potatoes are a "super food" and people are eating them year round and supermarkets are selling actual yams to serve different cultures of cuisine, this confusion is less common. However, this fic will use the term "sweet potato" and "yam" interchangeably when talking about casseroles because - that's how my family still does it. And language changes slower when naming dishes. Enjoy!

“I am going to murder you,” Nicaise grumbled, as he flopped down on the couch and pulled the throw blanket over himself.

“You didn’t have to come down.”

“You didn’t have to wake me up at ass-o’clock in the morning shouting about cinnamon buns and watching the parade, but here we are.”

“It’s 9:40,” Auguste said, deadpan. Laurent smiled.

“Like I said, ‘ass-o’clock. You are gonna let me sleep during the parade, aren’t you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”

“Then I might as well sleep down here as upstairs.” He held out his hand imperiously for his food.

“Get it yourself,” said Laurent.

Nicaise widened his eyes and blinked at them. “I woke up early to come down and eat with you, and it’s not even a school day,” he said pathetically.

“Oh, you are lucky it’s Thanksgiving,” said Auguste good-naturedly, handing over a plate of cinnamon bun and a mug of hot chocolate. Nicaise took a sip smugly.

* * *

Theomedes pushed back his seat. “Well done, boys. That was an excellent breakfast.”

It was. The bacon had come out a little burnt, but the sausages had warmed up nicely and mushroom frittata (Damen) and french toast casserole (Kastor) had both come out well, and as he sipped the last of his coffee, Damen felt that warm Thanksgiving feeling of being slightly overly full of food that was satisfying and good.

“Now.” Theomedes clapped. “Let’s start clearing off the table so you two can start on the real cooking.”

Kastor put his head on the table and groaned.

They had the leftovers stored away in a few minutes, and thank God Hypermenestra had tested one of the chipped plates years ago and discovered that their heirloom china was dishwasher safe. But now the counters in what Damen had previously thought was an embarrassingly large kitchen were covered in pre-made sides, unused ingredients covered the island, and looming on the sideboard, threatening as a beast of war, was a huge, pale, dreadful, foreboding uncooked turkey.

“Mom,” Kastor said weakly, “A little help?”

“Oh no,” Theomedes said, “You made your own bed. The job is yours today, as we agreed.”

“Absolutely,” Damen interrupted quickly, before his father could get going, “But before we get started, all on our own, could we have some advice from the master?”

“You calculated how long the turkey needs based on its size?” she asked sharply.

“Between two and three hours.”

“It’ll need to rest for almost another hour afterwards, so to have dinner ready for three, you need to start making the stuffing and preparing the bird now. Once the turkey’s in, you wash down the counter where the raw bird sat and anything it touched and start preparing whatever you didn’t make ahead of time. Around noon, we’ll start getting hungry again, so you need to budget to chop veggies for hummus and prepare a charcuterie board to tide everyone over. When the turkey’s out and resting, put everything pre-prepared back in the oven to reheat and start making the gravy. Then you’re ready to carve and serve. You boys know how to prepare a roast?”

“They can look it up. That’s what the YouTube is for.” Theomedes took the last of the breakfast mimosa pitcher (with a dash of cranberry juice, for festive-ness) and poured it into his wife’s champagne glass. “Now, for the first time in many years, your mother is going to relax and enjoy her Thanksgiving.”

Theomedes took her arm and led her into the sitting room.

* * *

“So why are we just turning on the parade now if it started at 9?” Nicaise asked, biting into his still-gooey cinnamon bun.

“It takes them an hour to get to the grandstand; we thought you would appreciate the extra time to sleep.”

“I’d appreciate still sleeping now,” is what Laruent thought Nicaise said next, but his mouth was too full of cinnamon to really hear him and he certainly seemed happy enough to be woken up for breakfast. Laurent sipped his hot chocolate (with a shot of espresso from the machine in the kitchen) and watched the Rockettes (“Gotta love a good kickline,” said Auguste) and the start of the parade.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Auguste said, as the first pop singer started lip-syncing from a float and they all started looking at their phones. He went off to the side of the room and pulled three small wrapped packages from behind the smaller sofa. “Presents!”

Laurent frowned. “If you start give out gifts on Thanksgiving, it’s going to become a tradition.”

“Not my problem,” he said, tossing one of the soft packages across the room to each of them. “These aren’t from me.”

He tore into his own with enthusiasm. “Oh heck yeah, fuzzy socks!”

They were mid-calf length, with a thin layer of fleece on the inside and a knitted outlerlay, red with a Fair Isle pattern of white snowflakes. Laurent and Nicaise got the same ones in different sizes.

“Who are these from if not you?” Nicaise said, turning them over quizzically.

“Laurent’s boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“He wants to be.”

“And you’re helping him I see,” Laurent said, “Sneaking courting gifts into the house.”

“This isn’t for  _ you _ , it’s for  _ us _ as a family,” Auguste said primly, as he enthusiastically pulled on his new socks, “To celebrate our first holiday season with Nicaise.”

“ _ Weak! _ ” Nicaise protested. “That was weak. You’re selling Laurent out.”

Auguste shrugged. “Laurent can tell him to kiss off if he wants to, but until he does, I’m gonna be nice and cozy.” He wiggled his toes.

“Just for that, I’m telling the PTA moms that you’re a slut for fuzzy socks,” Laurent said, “See how that encourages them.”

“What’s up with the PTA moms?” Nicaise asked.

“They know that we’re younger than most guardians of kids your age, so they go out of their way to be helpful. They’re very nice.”

“Auguste.” Laurent gave him a flat look. “Those women are thirsty.” And Laurent was  _ just  _ young enough that it was not him that they were thirsty for.

“We should take a picture of us in the socks to send to Damen,” Auguste said, changing the subject, “As a thank you.”

He pulled out his phone and Nicaise immediately grabbed it and started directing them. “No, not standing looking down, we should have our feet propped up on the ottoman.” He shoved the coffee table out of the way and moved it to the correct position, grabbing Laurent and Auguste by the elbow and positioning them on either side of him on the couch. “Here, sit with our feet up. Both of you cross your legs at the ankles. Auguste, hold one of the mugs so it’s in the shot. Laurent, grab that plate with the uneaten cinnamon bun and put on my lap.” He turned it until the icing was displayed to his satisfaction, then took the shot. It looked remarkably cozy: their three sets of legs stretched out together in pajama pants and matching socks, a huge parade balloon blurrily displayed on the TV in the background. Nicaise had put his legs straight out in front of him like a younger child, with his toes pointed up, and his feet looked smaller than usual between those of the two adults. They could put that on a Christmas card, if they felt like sending one out.

Nicaise examined it critically. “That’ll look cute for my Insta,” he said, handing the phone back to Auguste. “Text it to me after you send it to Damen.”

Auguste smiled. “Sure thing,” he said as he typed.

Laurent’s phone started buzzing with the picture notification from the “Turkey Bros” group chat, and then the several more notifications as Damen texted back. He left his phone face down.

“You’re not gonna checkit?”

“He can wait.”

Auguste frowned. “I thought you two were getting along. You went grocery shopping together a couple of days ago, didn’t you?”

“He has an SUV and offered to drive. You know food stores are always crazy two days before Thanksgiving, and only having to park one car made sense. It was a practical decision.”

“If I really shouldn’t be encouraging him, I can always-”

“No, it’s fine, just-. I haven’t figured out what I want from this exactly, yet, and I don’t want to seem too eager. Give him the wrong impression.”

His fingers were itching to see what Damen had said, even thought he could most likely guess the banal responses a picture like that would elicit, but he knew he knew that if he did that he would be unable to stop himself from responding. There was … potential there. Damen was attractive, and somehow he had so far managed to avoid throwing out any red flags. But Laurent hadn’t been in a relationship since - since ever, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to make that leap, not with so much else going on in his life right now. His eyes wandered down to the nest of Nicaise’s curls

Auguste saved him. “Damen says, ‘Happy Thanksgiving,’ that he’s glad we like the socks and we look very cozy like that. He also says that we look very relaxed and he’s jealous. Apparently their family does a big sit down breakfast to start the day and they’ve been up cooking for hours and have just started again. And Kastor says to, for the last time, take him out of the fucking group chat.” Auguste looked up. “I thought we did that.”

“I keep putting him back in,” Laurent said, “I like watching him swear when we start blowing up his phone.”

Auguste gave him a mildly disapproving look while Nicaise sniggered.

“Anyway, that reminds me, what does the master timeline say?”

Laurent consulted the rather exhaustive list they’d made. “If we want to eat around six, the turkey has to be in by two and we should start premaking the first sides -” he checked the time on his phone “- right now, actually.”

“I’ll take the first shift.” Auguste said, nodding at Laurent and clapping Nicaise on the shoulder as he got up. “But call me when the Snoopy balloon comes on.”

“Why does he say things like that?” Nicaise asked, as he picked up the remote, “Doesn’t he know by now that’ll make me fast forward past it?”

“He’s an optimist.”

“He’s an idiot,” said Nicaise, rolling his eyes fondly as he curled back into the couch.

* * *

Damen had switched the TV in the kitchen over to the Lions game as soon as the parade ended, but the announcer’s voice was drowned out by the noises from the living room.

“Come on! Move it! Yeah, go, go, GO!”

The vegetable peeler hung limply in his hand as he watched a small blue dot move across the tiny screen over the sink until it disappeared under a tackle of opposing players. Load groans greeted the catastrophe from the other room.

Wait a minute. Damen frowned. That had definitely been more than one male voice. The kitchen had three doors - outside to the backyard, dining room, and living room, and he stuck his head out of the correct one to find his father and brother both seated in armchairs watching the screen.

“I thought you were getting the green bean casserole from the car.”

“I was!” Kastor held up a Corningware dish indignantly.

“Then get in here and help me!”

They were already late with the snack plate and he had just discovered that the yam and apple casserole had somehow shrunk to half its original size while cooling, meaning he was going to have to make more of it to feed the table, and he only had two hands.

“Go help your brother,” Theomedes said.

“I was gonna go!” Kastor stomped into the room, shoving Damen out of the way as he started slicing up peppers to put out with the hummus.

***

“So now there’s a dog show?” Nicaise asked, as they finished off the sandwiches and potato chips they had bought at the deli yesterday to avoid having to worry about lunch.

“Yes.”

“And you watch it every year?”

“It’s tradition.”

There was a beat of silence. “No offense, and some of the parade balloons were cool, I guess, but is everything people watch on Thanksgiving kind of - long and boring?”

“I think that’s the point,” Laurent explained, “You’re not supposed to watch it, just have it on in the background while you’re catching up with family and popping in and out of the kitchen to help with the food. Like the football on the other channel.

Nicaise made a face. “Ew. At least this is less boring than football.”

“I quite agree. And some of the dogs have  _ ridiculous  _ names.”

“Are you going to make me help if I play my game instead of pretend to watch this?”

“I’m sure we’ll find some minion-work for you to do, but playing video games is no more or less likely to make that happen.”

Nicaise pulled a handheld out of his hoodie pocket and turned it on

Auguste shouted across the open-concept living space. “The other guys said they put a whole stick of butter on their turkey, does that sound right?”

“I’m not sure that’s enough, actually,” Laurent called back.

“Should we be using unsalted butter? Since we already added salt with the dry brine?”

Laurent hesitated. “Googling.”

The dinging chime of Auguste’s text notification came at the same time Laurent’s phone buzzed.

“My hands are covered in raw bird poison, can you check that?”

“Damen sent us a video about turkey trussing.” He watched the first few seconds. “It looks like skin flap origami.

Laurent got up off the couch and decided to head in as reinforcement. “Keep an eye out for the stupidest looking dog for me.

Nicaise glanced up from his game “Those dog jokes are  _ terrible,”  _ he said, in a voice of almost awe.

“I know.”

* * *

“I think we’re out of butter,” Damen said, in dawning horror.

“How are we out of butter, you just went to the fucking store?”

“I didn’t think we’d use that much.” The pie crust alone had taken more than he’d expected, and the turkey had a lot of surface area to cover. Then there was some in the stuffing, and the casserole that he’d thought he was done with and was now having to make more of. He looked at the half a stick left in his hand. “Do you need some for the corn pudding?”

“Yeah.”

Damen frowned. Some stores were still open, but if he sent Kastor out he wasn’t sure when he’d be back, and he didn’t trust him not to immediately head in to the football game if Damen went out for it himself. He texted the groupchat.

“Laurent says that his mom used to store extra butter in the freezer.”

“Good for Laurent’s mom, how the hell does that help?”

Damen ignored him and walked over to the freezer. In the door, between some fancy gelato and a frozen package of brie and onion hors d'oeuvres, were one box each of salted and unsalted butter. Thanking God for the shared habits of moms, Damen pulled them out.

As he turned to put them on the counter, he spotted Kastor’s workstation. “That’s all you’ve done?”

“It’ll get there.” Kastor turned around and glared at him defensively.

“If you paid half the attention to what you’re doing as you are to the game, you’d be done by now. I need your help over here.”

“Hey, I didn’t want to spend my whole day stuck in the kitchen with you!”

“I didn’t either, but here we are!”

“And it’s your goddamn fault!”

Damen’s eyes narrowed. “Good thing cooking a turkey is so easy then. We might be at each other’s throats if this were difficult.”

They glared at each other breathing hard when Hypermenestra’s voice called from the other room.

“You boys alright in there?”

“Fine!” the shouted back in unison before turning their backs on each other. Damen hacked up the last of his sweet potatoes with unusual aggression.

Hypermenestra came in to hover at the kitchen door. “You boys did remember to tuck the wings in so they don’t burn, right?”

“We’d better have, it’s been in there for almost two hours,” Kastor said, not looking up from what he was doing. “Are you sure we shouldn’t be doing something to it? Like with that giant eyedropper thing, like on TV?”

If Kastor had read the articles Damen had sent, he would know this, and he opened his mouth to respond.

“You don’t baste a turkey anymore,” Hypermenestra cut in before he could answer, “They say now that taking it out of the oven to do that removes more moisture than the basting puts back in.” She was wringing her hands. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you do this, it’s too much to handle -”

“No, it’s OK, we got this,” Damen reassured her, “We’re a little stressed, but it’s all going to plan.”

It really was. They had made most of what they needed ahead of time. They just needed to finish the yams and apples, make the corn pudding, and put the cheese and dried onions on top of the green bean casserole, and they’d have everything ready to go in the oven when the turkey came out in - Damen glanced at the clock - half an hour. They could do it, if they really buckled down.

“I still think I should’ve -”

“The boys want you to sit down, Nessa,” Theomedes said, coming up to where she was still standing in the doorway, “That’s how this whole thing started, remember? The boys wanted to give you a break for Thanksgiving.”

“But what if they ruin dinner?”

“Then I have three gourmet pizzas in the freezer downstairs, and we’ll have a funny story to tell for many Thanksgivings to come.”

She looked at him. Last winter, they couldn’t have been sure that Theomedes would make it to this Thanksgiving, much less many years on, but things were better now. His test results were steadily improving, and he looked stronger and healthier even then he had this time last year, when they didn’t yet know that anything was wrong. They had a lot to be thankful for.

She blinked. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. I don’t know why I’m letting myself get so stressed out like this.”

“That’s my girl. Now, come in and sit back down with me, and I will even let you put on something other than the game.”

“Oh, big sacrifice!” she said, laughing, “But that’s alright. I’d rather finish my library book anyway.”

“What you’ve been reading is from the library?” He sounded surprised. “You can get on the Kindle?”

And she went to show him how the app worked, the door swinging shut behind them.

Damen was staring. He was - pleased that his parents were happy, and that his stepmom wasn’t worrying anymore, but - did they really have that little faith in them?

“Damianos,” Kastor said, clapping a hand to his shoulder, and Damen nearly jumped, he hadn’t noticed his brother walking up to stand behind him. “We are going to win Thanksgiving.”

He was glaring again, this time at the door their parents had disappeared to, and Damen found himself grinning.

“Yes,” he said, confidently, “We are.”

And they set to work again, Kastor in particular moving with new speed and determination.

* * *

Laurent was finding it convenient that their dinner times were spaced so far apart. Whatever they were doing in the kitchen, the Akielos boys had finished an hour or two beforehand, and it was giving them the benefit of learning from the others’ mistakes. By the time their turkey was going in (well trussed, thanks to the shared video), across town, the turkey in the other kitchen was coming out and being put aside to rest.

“Damen’s family makes their sweet potato casserole with apples and cinnamon instead of marshmallows,” Laurent said, holding up his phone in just the right angle to take a picture of Auguste’s outraged expression.

“That’s good. I’m going to text him that.”

“I mean, I don’t want to judge other families’ traditions, but …”

“He claims that’s the more traditional way to do it.” Laurent was typing as he talked.

Auguste snorted. “It is absolutely not.”

“He wants to know if we think that the Pilgrims had marshmallows.” Laurent shook his head. “Actually, that reminds me, I had an idea for making sure our  _ properly  _ made sweet potatoes achieve adequate toasting on the marshmallow layer.”

He hopped up and started looking through a drawer of kitchen implements. “Obviously, we’ll finish it under the broiler, but first I thought we could give it a little help.” He held up what he’d been searching for.

Auguste grinned at him. “That is a great idea.” He raised his voice. “Hey Nicaise! You want to play with the crème brûlée torch?”

There was a pause.

“Well, yeah. Obviously.”

Nicaise’s socked feet began shuffling into the kitchen and Laurent found himself relaxing into a smile. This was going to be the best Thanksgiving.

* * *

Time would only tell what everything would taste like, but there was nothing like the smell of a roast turkey, and once everything was out of the oven, dinner certainly smelled as good as it always did. Their parents had set the table, agreeing that it was only faire that they take over Damen and Kastor’s usual jobs this year, and Kastor had managed to figure out the knife skills needed to carve the turkey while Damen transferred everything into fancy serving dishes. Soon they had a spread fit for a royal banquet hall: turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, yams and apples, string bean casserole, a medley of roasted carrots and parsnips, corn pudding, cranberry sauce, mushrooms stuffed with chestnuts, a salad with olives and grape leaves (for heritage), and dinner roles that were buttery and good and that their mother never needed to know came from the Pillsbury can.

“I have to hand it to you boys,” said Theomedes, looking around the table, “Everything looks delicious.”

He sounded just a little surprised.

“I knew you could do it,” Hypermenestra said, lying through her teeth. She held her arms out to her sides and they all joined hands around the table. “Blessed is God, who has mercy upon us and nourishes us from His bountiful gifts by His grace and love always, now and forever and to the ages of ages. Amen.”

They all chorused “Amen” after her and started passing plates around. It turned out that you couldn’t hide the fact that the cranberry sauce was from a can by breaking it up a little and adding some juice and fresh cranberries. (Raw cranberries are extremely bitter and have a hard consistency like tiny oval raw potatoes. Who knew?) And trying to make the mashed potatoes ahead of time had been A Mistake. But the cranberries were easy enough to pick out, the potatoes tasted good anyway if you added enough gravy, and everything else was completely delicious.

“I’m kind of impressed with us,” Kastor said, as he took another forkful of turkey that had miraculously come out  _ not dry at all. _

Damen nodded. “We did good.” He turned to his stepmother. “But I can’t believe you usually do this on your own. Even with the two of us, we barely made it.”

“It wouldn’t have been so close if you’d done the right job the first time with the yams and apples.”

“How was I supposed to know that sweet potatoes shrink after you cook them.” He appealed to Hypermenestra. “I filled that casserole dish to the brim, but once it was cooked, they shrank down to nothing! I had to make a second batch and mix them together.”

“Did you poach them first?”

“What?”

“You know, boil them in the skins for a few minutes and then dunk them in ice water.”

Damen blinked. “No. You didn’t tell me to do that.”

“Of course you have to poach them! It makes them much easier to work with. The skin just comes off in your hands and it’s easier to cut.”

They had been very difficult to cut - tough and thick and difficult to get the knife through. “That was the only thing I explicitly asked you how to make.”

“Well, now you know for next year,” she said, mildly embarrassed. Kastor was shaking with silent laughter.

“Yes, you boys did such a nice wonderful job we should make this a yearly tradition.”

Both their parents burst out laughing. “Oh, their faces. Oh that was mean.” Hypermenestra swatted her husband’s arm as he grinned unrepentant.

“But you have proved your point about being capable of helping with some of the sides from now on,” she continued. “It’ll be nice to have a little less work next year.”

“Halleluja,” said Kastor, “Pass me that bottle of wine.”

* * *

Laurent started the roux for the gravy, dropping thick pads of butter in the bottom of the (stovetop safe) roasting pan and sprinkling flour over it, melting them over the burner as he stirred them quickly, careful to scrape up all the fond as he worked. The sound of Nicaise and Auguste bickering floated into the room behind him as he carefully started reincorporating the drippings from the turkey.

“I’ve been in my pajamas all day, why should I have to get dressed now?”

“Because dinner’s almost ready.”

“So what, you’re going to make me change just to eat and then put my pajamas back on in a few hours?”

“That makes no sense.”

“It’s Thanksgiving, you have to dress nice.”

“Says who?”

“Tradition.”

“That’s dumb.”

“And when I said “dress nice,” I meant nice. You can wear jeans if they’re clean and look good, but a nice sweater or a button down - no hoodies or t-shirts.”

“ _ Seriously?!” _

Nicaise’s whining had taken on a more serious tone of irritation, but Auguste maintained a cheerful calm. 

“You’re lucky you’re not celebrating with our parents, they used to make me and Laurent wear suits.”

“Then I’m glad your parents are dead.”

It was said more quietly than Nicaise’s last sentence, but even in the kitchen, Laurent could hear the petty viciousness behind it. A ringing silence followed.

Laurent put down what he was doing and walked slowly into the front entryway. Nicaise and Auguste had stalled at the bottom of the stairs, a look of stubborn defensiveness covering up guilt on Nicaise’s face that Laurent was very familiar with. Nicaise would never be easy to deal with. They had known this going in, but they’d been having such a good time today that Auguste had forgotten.  _ Laurent  _ had forgotten. Usually, Auguste turned to Laurent for guidance when Nicaise lashed out, knowing he had dealt with the same issues. This time, he just squared his jaw and placed his hand on Nicaise’s shoulderblade, giving him a nudge up the stairs in the direction of his room. Perhaps sensing he had crossed a line, Nicaise went up without further complaint.

Laurent stood there in the entry, his own recently donned trousers and nice shirt on under his apron. He was still debating whether to follow and try to smooth things over or let it pass when he started to smell smoke coming from the kitchen.

“ _ Shit!” _

* * *

“Your pie came out so much better than mine, Kas,” Damen said, looking back and forth between the decent tasting but definitely rustic pumpkin that he had made to the perfection that was Kastor’s apple with the little design along the crust. It almost made him wish he’d followed Laurent’s example and gotten a real pumpkin instead of canned puree, just for bragging rights.

“Yes, Palladi’s bakery always does a nice job,” Hypermenestra said.

Kastor looked offended.

“Don’t start. I bought one myself for the fundraisers meeting last weekend, I know exactly what they look and taste like,” she said, “It doesn’t matter how the pie got here, just that it’s here and it’s delicious. Thank you, Kastor.”

He grumbled something unintelligible.

“We put too much stock in all homemade anyway. After all, I always buy my phyllo dough.” Hypermenestra reached under her chair and pulled out a plastic storage container.

“Is that baklava?”

“I thought perhaps you could use a little suprise help with dessert.”

She passed the box around and everyone took some, even though they all already had pie on their plates. Damen closed his eyes and reveled in it - sugar on his tongue, the smell of coffee and after dinner drinks, the warmth of home.

Then his phone started buzzing in his pocket.

“If it’s that damn group chat, tell them that we’re done and they’re on their own,” Kastor grumbled, but it wasnt’ that.

It was Auguste, texting him directly.

“Laurent’s freaking out,” he said, “Apparently he burned the gravy past all saving and doesn’t have anything to start over with. Auguste’s trying to convince him that it’s okay, but -”

He looked up at Hypermenestra. “They can use beef or chicken broth to make a gravy instead of drippings, right? It won’t taste the same, but …”

She peered at him sharply. “These are those nice boys who are raising a teenager all on their own?”

And she got up out of her chair.

“Mom, what are you doing?” Kastor said suspiciously.

She moved towards the kitchen.

“Mom. Mom. Mom, what - No. No, not our gravy!”

“We’ve finished dinner, and we still have plenty.”

“But what about leftovers! The Thanksgiving sandwiches are the best part.”

“We can use canned gravy. We’ll go to the store tomorrow.”

“ _ They _ can used canned gravy, they’re the ones who burned theirs!” They had moved into the kitchen by now, Hypermenestra taking the old pitcher with plastic wrap over it that they’d used to store the gravy in out of the fridge and searching for a more travel-worthy container.

“Kastor, it is Thanksgiving. It is time to be grateful for what we have and give to those who have not. I don’t want to hear another word on the subject. You’ll bring it over Damen.”

“Yeah.” A grin was spreading across his face.

Kastor whirled on him. “Damen only wants to help them because he’s trying to get laid.”

“Kastor!”

“Is this true?”

“No, it’s not true! I wouldn’t want their first Thanksgiving as a family ruined no matter how they looked.”

“Damianos.” His stepmother was gazing at him seriously. “Do you like one of those boys?”

He’d never been able to hide anything when she looked at him like that. He ducked his head and looked away, face heating.

She nodded twice. “Then we’ll use one of my good glass containers so you’ll have to go back later to get it back.”

Kastor was looking back and forth between them with a look of utter betrayal. “But the sandwiches …”

Taking the container from her, Damen kissed his stepmother on the cheek and headed out the back door.

* * *

“Dinner is not ruined,” Auguste said, rubbing Laurent’s back.

“No, we’ll just eat dry turkey, it’ll be great.”

“You say that like it’s the worst possible thing, but it won’t be the end of the world.”

It felt like the end of the world just then. He should have had a backup, he usually planned for all contingencies, but he’d been so sure that they could do this. That they could make a nice Thanksgiving for Nicaise. Now Nicaise was in a mood, and it was going to be one of the worst Thanksgiving dinners they’d ever had. Even if everything else turned out perfectly, with no gravy to pour over the turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes, it was just …

“I suppose there’s always the brussels sprouts,” Laurent remarked, “They can’t have gotten any worse.”

They were still green in that way that meant that they were undercooked, but gravy wouldn't help that.

“That’s the spirit.”

“Is Nicaise setting the table now?”

“‘In a minute.’ He says he has something important he needs to do first.”

Laurent turned to look at him.

“I know, I’ll deal with him, it just seemed that this kitchen was where I needed to be right now.”

“You shouldn’t - I’m not fourteen anymore, I can handle myself.” He shouldn’t be something Auguste had to worry about, another problem to add to the list, not when there was an actual minor to take care of. A minor that he should be  _ helping  _ to take care of.

“That doesn’t mean you can never need help again.”

“Hey, Auguste.”

They both looked up to see Nicaise standing awkwardly in the kitchen door. He didn’t look apologetic, exactly, but there was something a little not-proud-of-his-behavior in the way he was holding himself.

“I found the part of the parade with the Snoopy balloon,” he mumbled.

At first, neither of them knew what he was talking about. Then they both realized, at the same time, that Nicaise must have taken Auguste’s throw-away comment from this morning and rewound through hours and hours of DVR until he’d found five seconds of footage that Auguste had said he wanted to see.

“That’s great,” he said, “Let’s go watch together, and then we can set the table.”

He hipchecked Nicaise a little as he walked beside him, checking to see if touch was okay right now, and threw his arm around his shoulders when it got a good reaction.

Laurent trailed behind until the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it!” he said, not wanting to interrupt their moment, and marched to the door throwing his apron off.

He flung it open.

There, standing in the glow of the porchlight, was Damen, coat open and hair tousled as if he had run to get there, eyes gleaming in the yellow light. There was a glass snap-top storage container in one of his hands, car keys jangling in the other.

“I heard you were having a gravy emergency.”

Laurent looked from Damen’s hands to the breadth of his shoulders to his smiling face - guileless, handsome, one-dimpled. He stared.

Then he grabbed Damen by the open front of his coat, flung him against the wall, and kissed him as hard as he could. There was a soft thud as the keys fell from his limp hand, but he kept his grip on the gravy as he cupped Laurent’s cheek and pulled him even closer. His hand was broad enough to nearly cover Laurent’s face and warm in the November night. He was kissing back immediately, lips soft and passionate, and he managed to coax their mouths open just enough to tease Laurent with a little flash of tongue.

When he pulled back, Laurent was panting. “Thank you for the gravy.”

“Sure, no problem.”

Then they both started laughing.

“I’d like to take you out,” Damen said, “If that’s OK.”

“Oh, haven’t you heard? I wildly kiss all men who show up on my porch at night bearing gravy.”

“I’ll have to bring you some more tomorrow then.”

Laurent was grinning. He tried to get his face to stop doing that but the muscles just wouldn’t obey. “Yes, Damen, you can take me out.”

“I know you have family stuff right now -” he gestured towards the open door “- but I’ll text you.”

“I look forward to it.”

Damen hopped down the porch steps with a little wave. Laurent waited until he’d gotten in his car to close the door behind him.

“What are you smiling about?” Nicaise asked.

“Taking a leap.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Gravy crisis averted. You and Auguste get the table ready while I heat this up.”

* * *

“We got stuck with dish duty again this year even though we made all the food?” Damen asked, as he walked back into his own family’s kitchen.

“You mean  _ I  _ got stuck with dish duty, since you were on a precious errand of mercy.” He glanced up. “I take it from the goofy look on your face that it went well.”

“Gotta date. And a kiss.”

“That’s it? If I’m gonna eating crap leftovers for this, it could’ve at least gotten you laid.”

“In the fifteen minutes I was gone?”

“Not my fault you’ve got no game.”

“If you think that’s how long sex takes, I feel sorry for all of your previous girlfriends.”

Kastor scowled as he finished rinsing off the huge pot they’d used to brine the turkey and Damen looked at the contents of the sink. “You know, all of this looks dishwasher safe.”

“You think I would be doing this if the dishwasher wasn’t full already?”

“What about the kitchen in the poolhouse?”

Kastor clapped him on the shoulder with a soapy hand.

“You know little bro, most of the time, you are a complete idiot, but sometimes, you’re an absolute genius.”

* * *

“Alright, now we go around the table and say what we’re thankful for.”

“I’m thankful our ancestors slaughtered the Native Americans for the farmland all this food was grown on,” Nicaise said sourly. Laurent was familiar with that. Of course he wouldn’t want to say anything he was truly thankful for. Honesty was vulnerable - easier to try and get a reaction.

Auguste, raising difficult teens since he was twenty six, didn’t give him one. “That’s a very important part of history to remember, especially this time of year,” he said seriously, “It’s about time to start thinking about which charities we’ll be donating to this Christmas. There’s a lot of native activist groups with worthwhile causes if that’s something you’d be interested in funding.”

Nicaise sank lower in his chair. “Whatever.”

“This year I’m thankful for new beginnings, and the new people who’ve come into our lives,” Laurent said, catching Nicaise’s eye so he would understand that Laurent meant him - that for all the trouble Nicaise could cause, he was grateful, immensely grateful, to have him as part of their family.

Auguste smiled. “I’m thankful for food, family, and, of course, for having Nicaise with us this year, and all the years to come.”

That was too much, too specific, and Laurent could see how it made Nicaise squirm for Auguste to say it out loud. But that too was good. Nicaise needed both things - to hear it implied, subtly enough that he wouldn’t immediately need to reject it; and to hear it said out loud whether he could believe it or not.

Laurent fingered his phone in his pocket, where he’d already received a text from Dame asking Laurent to let him know when dinner was over so they could discuss their plans. It was too soon to tell yet, but maybe he could be thankful for this too.

“Alright,” said Auguste, raising up his wineglass. Laurent and Nicaise clinked their sparkling ciders to his. “Let’s eat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten points to Gryffindor (or Hogwarts House of your choice) for the first person who guesses which cooking disaster actually happened to me when I first started taking on more responsibility for helping my parents with Thanksgiving dinner.


End file.
